1891
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
-
We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the
maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in
this way:
-
Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.
Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11:15.
-
"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will
you go?"
"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present."
"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking
a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and
you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."
"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained
through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at
once, for I have only half an hour."
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few
and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with
my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was
pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even
gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and close fitting
cloth cap.
"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It
makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on
whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or
else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the
tickets."
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged
and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we
were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic
ball and tossed them up onto the rack.
"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.
"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."
"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult."
"That sounds a little paradoxical."
"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it
is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man."
"It is a murder, then?"
"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for
granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it.
I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been
able to understand it, in a very few words.
"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.
John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years
ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an
ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that
it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do
so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer
man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems,
upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together.
McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only
daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They
appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English
families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were
fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the
neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants-a man and a girl. Turner had
a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as
much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the
facts.
"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the
stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.
"From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an
old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William
Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these
witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following
him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of
the tragedy that had occurred.
"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,
the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge.
A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the
lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods
picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the
border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son,
and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr.
McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she
saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was
so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her
mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys
quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were
going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr.
McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his
father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the
lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out
upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by
repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were
such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his
son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of
the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly
arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned at the
inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates
at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the
main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the
police-court."
"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."
"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the
culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring land-owner,
who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you
may recollect in connection with 'A Study in Scarlet', to work out the
case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
case to me, and hence it is that two middleaged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their
breakfasts at home."
"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you
will find little credit to be gained out of this case."
"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered,
laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable
of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to
hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is
upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade
would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."
"How on earth-"
"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight, but since your shaving is less and less
complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes
positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely
very clear that that is less illuminated than the other. I could not
imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light
and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial
example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it
is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation
which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."
"What are they?"
"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after
the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary
informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not
surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. His
observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of
doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."
"It was a confession," I ejaculated.
"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."
"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
least a most suspicious remark."
"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I
can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he
could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the
circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised
at his own arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked
upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not
be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the
best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation
marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of
considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his
deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood
beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he
had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words
with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is
so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach
and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be
the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."
I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence," I remarked.
"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."
"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"
"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,
though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You
will find it here, and may read it for yourself."
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph
in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what
had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage
and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:
-
Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
and gave evidence as follows: "I had been away from home for three
days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last
Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my
arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to
Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the
wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw
him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware
in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out
in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of
visiting the rabbit-warren which is upon the other side. On my way I
saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his
evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my
father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred
yards from the pool I heard a cry of 'Cooee!' which was a usual signal
between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him
standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me
and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation
ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father
was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was
becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm.
I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous
outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father
expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my
gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I
knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no
idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners; but he had, as far as I
know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter."
The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he
died?
Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
allusion to a rat.
The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.
The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
this final quarrel?
Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure
you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.
The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out
to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.
Witness: I must still refuse.
The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
signal between you and your father?
Witness: It was.
The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?
Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when
you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?
Witness: Nothing definite.
The Coroner: What do you mean?
Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the
open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have
a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground
to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something gray in colour, a
coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I
looked round for it, but it was gone.
"Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?"
"Yes, it was gone."
"You cannot say what it was?"
"No, I had a feeling something was there."
"How far from the body?"
"A dozen yards or so."
"And how far from the edge of the wood?"
"About the same."
"Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards
of it?"
"Yes, but with my back towards it."
This concluded the examination of the witness.
-
"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in
his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give
details of his conversation with his father, and his singular
account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very
much against the son."
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon
the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some
pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young
man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for
having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could
not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the
jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness
anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of
the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the
point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall
see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket
Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are
on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall
be there in twenty minutes."
It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through
the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon
the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather
leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I
had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With
him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been
engaged for us.
"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of
tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy
until you had been on the scene of the crime."
"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure."
Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.
"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in
the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and
the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination.
I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage
to-night."
Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as
plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it
becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very
positive one, too. She had heard of you, and would have your
opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you
could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her
carriage at the door."
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet
eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all
thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and
concern.
"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other
of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon
my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down
to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I
want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself
doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little
children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too
tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who
really knows him."
"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You
may rely upon my doing all that I can."
"But you have read the evidence, You have formed some conclusion? Do
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that
he is innocent?"
"I think that it is very probable."
"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking
defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague
has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.
"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it.
And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why
he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned
in it."
"In what way?" asked Holmes.
"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had
many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that
there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved
each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has
seen very little of life yet, and-and-well, he naturally did not
wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I
am sure, was one of them."
"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"
"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour
of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes
shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.
"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if
I call tomorrow?"
"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."
"The doctor?"
"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for
years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to
his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his
nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who
had known dad in the old days in Victoria."
"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."
"Yes, at the mines."
"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner
made his money."
"Yes, certainly."
"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to
me."
"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you
will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell
him that I know him to be innocent."
"I will, Miss Turner."
"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we
heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.
"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a
few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are
bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it
cruel."
"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes.
"Have you an order to see him in prison?"
"Yes, but only for you and me."
"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have
still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"
"Ample."
"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very
slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."
I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through
the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,
where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,
however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were
groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the
fiction to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and
gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day.
Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true,
then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and
extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he
parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his
screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries
reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called
for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the
inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the
posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the
occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon.
I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been
struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the
accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father.
Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have
turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while
to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying
reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium.
A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No,
it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate.
But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some
possible explanation. And then the incident of the gray cloth seen
by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped
some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight and
must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the
instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen
paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole
thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so
much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope
as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of
young McCarthy's innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.
"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It
is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over
the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and
keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when
fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."
"And what did you learn from him?"
"Nothing."
"Could he throw no light?"
"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who
had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now
that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very
quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,
sound at heart."
"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact
that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this
Miss Turner."
"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years
at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches
of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one
knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it
must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his
very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was
sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the
air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to
propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of
supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very
hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth.
It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days
in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point.
It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the
barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and
likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to
him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard,
so that there is really no tie between them. I think that of news
has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."
"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"
"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two
points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone
at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his
son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second
is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that
his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case
depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and
we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with
the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.
"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired
of."
"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.
"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business
has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of
McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have
learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."
"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.
"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
here speaks of his kindness to him."
"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have
been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying
his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the
estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were
merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the
more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the
idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from
that?"
"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,
winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without
flying away after theories and fancies."
"You are right," said Holmes demurely, "you do find it very hard
to tackle the facts."
"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult
to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.
"And that is-"
"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that
all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."
"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm
upon the left."
"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking
building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of
lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless
chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of
this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the
maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her master wore
at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the
pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully
from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to
the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led
to Boscombe Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils
seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind
was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a
question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most,
only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and
silently he made his way along the track which ran through the
meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp,
marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many
feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it
on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop
dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade
and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,
while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the
conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a
definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the
Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above
the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red,
jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's
dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick,
and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across
between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake.
Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found,
and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the
traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes,
as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other
things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a
dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.
"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.
"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth-"
"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had
I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all
over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But
here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens
and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all
the time to himself rather than to us. "These are young McCarthy's
feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles
are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his
story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are
the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is
the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha,
ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual
boots! They come, they go, they come again of course that was for
the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down,
sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well
within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the
largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the
farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a
little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning
over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be
dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the
ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.
"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,
returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on
the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word
with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we
may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall
be with you presently."
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back
into Ross, Holmes still carving with him the stone which he had picked
up in the wood.
"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out. "The
murder was done with it."
"I see no marks."
"There are none."
"How do you know, then?"
"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few
days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It
corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."
"And the murderer?"
"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us
in our search."
Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he
said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a
hard-headed British jury."
"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train."
"And leave your case unfinished?"
"No, finished."
"But the mystery?"
"It is solved."
"Who was the criminal, then?"
"The gentleman I describe."
"But who is he?"
"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."
"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in
a perplexing position.
"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared; "just sit
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know
quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and
let me expound."
"Pray do so."
"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about
young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although
they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the
fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!'
before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a
rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that
caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must
commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says
is absolutely true."
"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"
"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The
son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was
within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of
whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a
distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between
Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom
McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had
been in Australia."
"What of the rat, then?"
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he
said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over
part of the map. "What do you read?"
"ARAT," I read.
"And now?" He raised his hand.
"BALLARAT."
"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son
only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of
his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."
"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.
"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third point
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We
have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an
Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."
"Certainly."
"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could
hardly wander."
"Quite so."
"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the
ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile
Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."
"But how did you gain them?"
"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."
"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of
his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."
"Yes, they were peculiar boots."
"But his lameness?"
"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than
his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped-he was
lame."
"But his left-handedness."
"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I
found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco
ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know,
devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on
the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette
tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered
the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian
cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."
"And the cigar-holder?"
"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he
used a holder. The tip had been cut off not bitten off, but the cut
was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."
"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as
if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction
in which all this points. The culprit is-"
"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous
limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and
of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding,
drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to
his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and
the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was
clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and
chronic disease.
"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"
"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to
see me here to avoid scandal."
"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."
"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion
with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already
answered.
"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is
so. I know all about McCarthy."
The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried.
"But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my
word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the
Assizes."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.
"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It
would break her heart-it will break her heart when she hears that I am
arrested."
"It may not come to that," said Holmes.
"What?"
"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter
who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
McCarthy must be got off, however."
"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years.
My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I
would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I
shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can
witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity
to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless
it is absolutely needed."
"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall
live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish
to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to
you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me
long to tell."
"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil
incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a
man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has
blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.
"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took
to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a
highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life
of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons
on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I
went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the
Ballarat Gang.
"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballust to Melbourne, and we
lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of
us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at
the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we
got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was
this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had though him
shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes
fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away
with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England
without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and
determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought
this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do
a little with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned
it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my
dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed
to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a
word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the
past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.
"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in
Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.
"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be
as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and
you can have the keeping of us. If you don't-it's a fine,
law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
within hail.'
"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse
as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my
past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever
it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last
he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.
"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his
lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would
not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any
dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I
stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were
to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.
"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me
seemed, to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my
daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were
a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all
that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this.
Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate
man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my
own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if
I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes.
"I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life
of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled
in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I
struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul
and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the
cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak
which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen,
of all that occurred."
Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation."
"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"
"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you
will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the
Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I
shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal
eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with
us."
"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace
which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his
giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.
"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case
as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but
for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and
submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven
months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every
prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together
in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.
-THE END-